


give me my sin again

by brophigenia



Series: the poly dreampack holiday series [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bubble Bath, Dry Humping, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Grinding, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, M/M, Prokopenko (Raven Cycle) Lives, Surprises, Teasing, Valentine's Day, and i wanted to send my favorite trashboys on a date, joseph kavinsky's intimacy kink, okay so it's almost valentine's day, poly dreampack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: Skov swore when the water came through the showerhead, cold because of Proko’s shitty water heater.It made Jiang laugh, bright as a new penny; the kind of sound you could use as an alarm clock, because you couldn’t hear it and be angry.Skov watched the pink swirling down the drain; he thought about how they’d all look tonight, spruced and primped and primed. Their clothes waited on wooden racks in the bedroom-slash-kitchen-slash-everything-else, suit jackets and trousers and pocket squares and ties and shirts, all their shoes lined up in a neat row by the door.(AKA, the PolyDreampack!Valentine's Day date and sexy results that I really needed in my life.)
Relationships: Jiang/Joseph Kavinsky/Prokopenko/Skov/Swan
Series: the poly dreampack holiday series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628791
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	give me my sin again

**Author's Note:**

> Don't judge me, it's been a while and I'm trying to get back in the trash filth game. January is a cruel month. I've been wearing lots of sweaters and eating lots of carbs.

_ be my, be my baby  _

_ say you’ll be my darling.  _

_ *** _

“Be  _ careful!”  _ Skov hissed, sitting on the floor while Jiang sat atop the toilet’s closed lid, holding absolutely still with a stained towel around his shoulders as Jiang brushed pink dye through his icy-white locks with all the precision of a chemist working with hazardous waste. It was too-warm and too-close in the bathroom, even with the window open, Proko painting his toenails idly perched on the countertop and Swan’s bubble bath letting off steam enough to have them all pink-cheeked. Everything smelled  _ red,  _ strawberries and cherries and an angel’s kiss in spring, all that romantic  _ bullshit  _ they’d been conditioned since childhood to associate with  _ love.  _

“Remind me again  _ why  _ you live in an absolute shithole.” Skov continued, muttering in Proko’s direction, bitching and moaning worse than usual. 

“Your grandmother is crying in her grave.” Proko replied around the cigarette he held between his lips that was rapidly becoming just one long cylinder of ash. The polish he was using was the same lurid red as a 7-11 cherry Slurpee, or maybe the bright oxygenated blood that came from a fresh head wound. The combination of the smoke, the varnish, and the dye had Skov’s head swimming— and  _ not _ in the good way. 

“We don’t live in Stalingrad,” Skov snipped back, switching to Russian with his chin now digging into his collarbones as Jiang put dye on his shorn-close nape. 

“Do you know how expensive rent is in this hellhole?” Proko asked, finally sitting up and cracking his neck, letting his legs dangle with the fresh red toenail polish gleaming obscenely in the low light, ashing his cigarette and giving himself a flirtatious smirk in the mirror. “Why would I pay for some flashy place when I’m hardly ever even here? Just so you can complain it’s not got a good enough view?” 

Swan sighed noisily, sinking down further in his bubbles, so big that he barely fit into the tub, his dark knees and arms gone everywhere but in the gloriously-hot water. His eyelids were half-mast and he was probably the most beautiful human in the world, but it didn’t bring jealousy rising green in Skov’s throat. It never had. He was content to just  _ look _ at Swan, the way some men were content to wander around art museums just looking at all the horrible beauty on the placid walls. He could not look at  _ David  _ or any Caravaggio without burning hot and mean in his cheeks for hatred, but Skov could look at Swan. 

“I’m  _ trying  _ to relax,” Swan informed them, quiet and low, a voice that rumbled all through Skov’s body and burrowed into his stomach. Living there, warm, with all the other words Swan had ever spoken in his presence. “Fuckers.” 

“Done.” Jiang announced then, finished wrapping Skov’s dye-covered hair with plastic. He rose with joints cracking, betraying his ripe-old age of twenty five, standing to his full height and then joining Proko on the counter, wordlessly taking up the clear polish to brush over his well-kept fingernails. It was quick work; Skov was still in the floor when Jiang had finished and plucked the very last of Proko’s cigarette from between his lips, taking a drag to finish it off. He and Proko still moved together the way they had in school, before everything else. Before junior year, before that summer, before everything went upside down for so long that none of them could get their sea legs back for months afterwards, and still sometimes woke up in the echoes of that grief, that turmoil. 

Skov scooted over until he could plunge his arms into Swan’s bathwater, dragging his fingertips over Swan’s slick thighs, his fine-boned ankles, the long bones in his feet. Swan smiled with his eyes fully closed, relaxed and fair. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he whispered, settling his chin on the edge of the tub. “Don’t fall asleep.” Swan’s hand found his underwater. He huffed a little laugh out through his nose, a breathy sound. 

It was quiet in the bathroom, all of them paired off but still together, Joseph Kavinsky’s wild dogs, for a long stretch of minutes. Time filled only with the sound of their breathing, the settling sounds of their limbs moving, the metallic whirr of Proko’s lighter as he lit up another cigarette from the pack resting in the otherwise-empty soap dish. They were restful when they weren’t sparked up with K’s presence- it was how it had always been, the four of them easy and watchful without K to egg them on, to give them purpose. 

Finally, Jiang spoke. “Should be done now.” He said, indicating Skov’s processing dye, which had started to itch and tingle against his scalp beneath the plastic. Swan groaned deep in his chest and flipped the stopper on the tub with his foot, raising up with water streaming from his muscled limbs as if in slow motion, the kind of thing you could bottle and sell. Skov stripped off his boxer briefs and made sure to press their bodies together as they passed each other, Swan getting out of the tub and Skov getting in. He swore when the water came through the showerhead, cold because of Proko’s shitty water heater. 

It made Jiang laugh, bright as a new penny; the kind of sound you could use as an alarm clock, because you couldn’t hear it and be angry. 

Skov watched the pink swirling down the drain; he thought about how they’d all look tonight, spruced and primped and primed. Their clothes waited on wooden racks in the bedroom-slash-kitchen-slash-everything-else, suit jackets and trousers and pocket squares and ties and shirts, all their shoes lined up in a neat row by the door. 

He grinned at the far wall of the shower, thrumming with anticipation. 

Beyond the curtain, all of their phones chimed. 

***

Joseph Kavinsky woke up on Valentine’s Day the same way he woke up any other day of the week— with a groan and a slurred  _ motherfuckin’ fuck  _ and a contemplation of retirement at the  _ oh-so  _ tender age of twenty-four. He smacked the squalling alarm clock with a violence he rarely got to use anymore and then rolled from the bed, vaguely nauseous when he made it upright and all the drainage in his nasal passages started leaking down his throat. Fucking  _ allergies.  _ He remembered fondly the mornings he was too hungover to notice his overwhelming fucking  _ pollen allergies.  _ Fucking False Spring. 

Hard in his boxers, K hobbled to the en suite so he could squint at his own reflection in the brightly-illuminated mirror, all flat hair and puffy bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. It was unfair how bad he looked in the mornings, worse than when he  _ actually  _ was a cokehead. Still, there were some things that couldn’t be avoided, when you were growing older. Things like this: plugging in a curling iron to deal with his hair and pulling out a cylindrical tub of hydrating gel eye pads. 

Sighing, K rolled his eyes and pushed down his boxers, curling a hand around his erection and flicking his wrist as he gave himself a stroke, coaxed to proper hardness despite the cool air and his aching knees, ignoring how stuffy his nose was and how stale he felt. In a direct countermeasure, K pulled his shirt up so that his abs were exposed and snapped a couple pictures with his phone, firing them off to the group chat and watching the gray dots start to appear as his boys formulated their responses, still only idly jacking off as something to do while he waited for the ceramic to get hot. 

_ ilyusha: happy vday to meeeee _

_ j: I am in a meeting.  _

_ swannnnnnn: (Y) _

The messages came in gratifyingly fast, though Skov’s took a few minutes and K was already spraying and curling the top of his undercut by the time it appeared flashing on his screen. 

_ skovron: [1 Multimedia Attachment]  _

The picture was nothing overly-sexual, just one of his water-drop-adorned hipbones and a close-up of a plush towel, suggestive and artistic. Still, it made K’s stomach swoop. He imagined licking one of those droplets up, following it up to the tattoos on Skov’s ribs, up further until he could bite at Skov’s perfect, unblemished neck. Bite his initials into it, maybe, the way he’d once fantasized about taking a pocketknife and carving them there, lurid red with the symphony of Skov’s weeping for accompaniment. 

It was one of the more…  _ alarming  _ impulses that Dr. Beatrice was helping him overcome and quell with every session. Still, it made him quiver low-down, made him lay down the hairspray so he could put a hand down on the cool granite and curl the other one around his cock again, dragging up, up, passing his palm over the head, gritting his teeth with it. 

When he came it was like that first good stretch of the morning, realigning everything, ribs expanding and sunshine on his tongue. Prickly awareness on the nape of his neck and waves of pleasure curling his toes against the floor. 

It was 7 P.M. 

The night was about to fall; the city was about to come alive. 

_ ilyusha: we still on 4 tonite ??  _

K grinned to his reflection, peeling off his gel strips with the hand  _ not  _ covered in semen. The thin skin below his sooty-lashed eyes was oily with the residue, moisturized and less-swollen; his high, hollow cheeks were flushed with the exertion, the  _ exercise.  _

_ kingk: u kno it baby :*  _

There was a new suit in his closet and a shirt to match; black cherry on black cherry on black cherry. “I am a god.” He said to himself in the mirror, doing his best Megan Fox, before cracking up and getting to work finishing his hair. 

***

“Oh, shit.” Proko said,  _ scraping  _ his eyes over K’s suit-clad body, grinning wicked-bad and rubbing at his own mouth with his thumb, performative and ridiculous and still making K feel lit up on the inside like he’d swallowed a whole fucking  _ pack  _ of firecrackers. Like the Fourth of July in his chest. “Goddamn,  _ goddamn.”  _

Around them, the restaurant was quiet, empty, rented-out for the hour and a half it would take them to eat, everything decked out for Valentine’s Day, mylar balloons and rose petals, everything Instagram-ready for the millennial couples who would arrive once they’d rolled out. As it was, Proko knew they’d not make it out without Skov insisting on a mini-photoshoot for his own Insta,  _ @skovtheslav,  _ where he liked to pose with his Rolex out, posting up like he was harder than he was. 

“You fuckin’ scab.” K muttered, pleased, and let Proko pull out his chair because it was Valentine’s Day and that was the sort of thing Proko liked to do, romantic at heart beneath the absent-minded Professor Fuckboy exterior. 

“How came thy eyes so bright?” Proko responded, and pressed a too-fast kiss to the side of K’s jaw as he pushed the chair underneath, clear-varnished nails shining even in the low faux-candlelight. 

K only hummed noncommittally, taking up the menu and skimming over it, furrowing his brow as he tried to parse the Italian in his head with nothing but his schoolboy Latin to go on, stubbornly refusing to ask for help or pull out his phone for a quick Google. It was one of the reasons Proko had chosen the place- beyond his own voracious love for their eggplant parmesan. 

“You ready to order?” Proko asked quietly, grinning at Jiang, Skov, and Swan over K’s shoulder, walking slowly and on the same rhythm so as not to prick K’s ears with three sets of unknown footsteps. 

“I guess.” K shrugged, finally looking up into their faces as they stopped by the table, bearing a bottle of wine and three extra glasses. The transformation his expression went through was like something from a movie; joy coming crashing over the mountaintops, a weight coming off of heavy shoulders, a pinch leaving the corners of tired eyes. Proko both wanted to film the moment and keep it secret, tucked between the five of them where it would be safe, K’s vulnerabilities covered up by their bodies and their malice like four human shields ready to take a bullet straight to the head. 

“You  _ fuckers.”  _ K swore, and then was on his feet, grasping them each firmly by the biceps in their turn, all he could allow himself in this city, even with the supposed anonymity of their location. He was Joseph Kavinsky, even in an ‘empty’ restaurant. And he’d seen  _ The Godfather  _ too many times to be comfortable anywhere, at least in his own stomping grounds. 

“That’s the idea.” Jiang murmured slyly anyway, quiet enough not to be overheard by any lingering waitstaff, and then sat down with a flourish, covering his lap with a lurid red napkin and picking up the menu. 

***

“I can’t fucking believe you.” K laughed, more than half-drunk, mouth so red from the wine it looked like he was wearing lipstick- and wasn’t  _ that  _ a thought? Proko could picture it, K’s face smeared with the stuff, his own dick stained red, all wax and saliva.  _ Fuck.  _

“We missed you.” Swan said, loosening his tie and smiling his rarest, warmest smile, just a sliver of those bone-white teeth and a fond curl of his full lips. Skov’s favorite smile, next to the one Swan always gave when he was ready to fight, shaking out his shoulders and baring those fine teeth like fangs. 

“You saw me… not even two fucking months ago.” K’s words were mocking but his tone was pleased, his eyes slitted almost-closed with it. Pleased by  _ them,  _ by this show of their devotion. 

“Yeah, well. Can’t get ass like yours just  _ anywhere.”  _ Skov purred ridiculously, coming forward to drape himself over K like a tightly-fitted coat, brushing the tips of their noses together, teasing K with a delicate kitten-lick to his upper lip that he’d  _ definitely  _ learned from  _ Call Me By Your Name,  _ Proko was  _ so  _ making fun of him for that later. 

But first: 

“Are we going to fuck, or what?” He asked baldly, no romantic literary quotes, making Jiang laugh again, that startled sunshine sound that had them all smiling in response, Pavlovian. Proko stuffed his hands into his pockets, tightening his trousers over his ass, and led the way to the bedroom with a bounce to his step, grinning slyly to himself. 

“I don’t feel very romanced.” K teased, though he threw himself down onto his bed willingly enough and started unbuttoning his own shirt, the darkest red that it seemed almost black in the low light, exposing a swath of pale skin that they all four wanted to devour. 

_ “Romance  _ him, Proko.” Skov encouraged, slinking onto the bed and putting his mouth to K’s sternum, his navel, the space right above the buckle of his belt that jumped when he licked it with the flat of his tongue as his hands worked at unbuckling.

“Oh,” Proko said, foggy from the wine and the sight before him, affected by all of it, catching up to him all at once. “You are the mirror of the night.” He quoted, and heeled off his shoes, undoing his cufflinks, trying to free himself from the cage of clothing he’d so carefully chosen. “The violent flash of lightning. The…” Jiang came up behind him, helpfully unbuttoning his shirt in a quick, long line as he nibbled at Proko’s horribly-sensitive earlobe. “Uh, the dampness of the earth. The-” 

“I think that’s romantic enough.” Swan interrupted, all amusement, touching K’s jaw with the very tips of his fingers. “Open your mouth, luv.” K’s eyes were so sharp; for a second it was in his mind to say  _ no,  _ to say  _ fuck you,  _ but then he opened up anyway, bucking his hips up so his own cock nearly put out Skov’s eye even as Swan swung a leg over his head, straddling his shoulders so he could feed his cock into K’s waiting mouth. 

_ “I’m _ not romanced enough.” Jiang whispered into Proko’s ear, still holding him, hands now touching him up all the places that made Proko hot under the collar. The position was reminiscent of post-praccy showers, fucking around after everyone else was gone, Proko biting his lips bloody to keep quiet and Jiang grinding up against his ass, fucking between his sweat-and-soap-slick thighs to get out that restless adrenaline energy that came with not being allowed to punch their teammates’ lights out but  _ wanting  _ to. “Keep talking.” His right hand began to edge under Proko’s trousers, his boxer-briefs, even as his left rubbed over Proko’s nipples, his throat, the thin skin over his hipbones. 

“Yeah, that’s not…” Proko groaned, and dropped his head back onto Jiang’s shoulder, still keeping his eyes on K, double-teamed by a better pair than even he and Jiang, SkovAndSwan, who moved like they were two bodies controlled by one mind, laser-focused like this. “I can’t…” 

K groaned, gagging a little, choking on Swan’s cock but keeping his hands clasped tight over Swan’s thickly-muscled thighs, eyes welled up with wetness and eyebrows furrowed in determination. He was so determined in times like this- so single-minded when it came to slutting it up. 

“Hot moon, thick smell of seaweed…” Proko mumbled, like he had a mouth full of marbles, and wished that he had a mouth full of  _ something,  _ fingers or cock or  _ anything,  _ if only so he could be fuller. “Crushed mud and light…” He could almost feel K’s pleasure, the messy-wet suction of Skov between his thighs a phantom thing as Jiang stroked him more concretely, and all of it made him wish he could fuse back together with K again, thoughts that only came up when he was so high with pleasure he could hardly stand it. They were thoughts tinged in coffee-dark unfamiliarity, and Proko could never make sense of them after he’d come down, gone back into himself. He spoke them aloud now, though, and couldn’t stop himself, profanity and desperation spilling forth easier than his attempted quotations. “I wish we were back together.” He said, and dragged Jiang forward with him, four legs and four arms falling into a ragged heap at K’s side. He needed skin; he needed to  _ touch,  _ grinding against K’s thigh and crowding him, speaking half-into the comforter. “I wish we were back together, I wish you were me and I was you and I was in your head still, I want to be inside you, all the way, I want, K, I  _ want-”  _ and he was needy, he was greedy, he couldn’t stand it; K’s left hand left Swan’s thigh to twist up in his hair and that was  _ it.  _

_ You’re so fucked up,  _ Jiang wanted to say, admiringly, listening to all of it, watching the trainwreck that was Proko and K, together, too-close and too-far. He thought about burying Proko, just a flash of a memory that he pushed aside as soon as it welled up, folding dirt over Proko’s still, pale face like a blanket. “Hold still.” He said instead, and ground against Proko’s ass, thickly-muscled from his workout routine. He may not lace up his skates anymore, but Proko was still a goon through and through. Swan rolled off of K, leaving him with swollen lips and glazed eyes; Jiang reached for him, kissed him, reveled in the taste of his cinnamon gum, wishing he could spend  _ hours  _ kissing Swan. Kissing Swan was easy- there was no magic in his mouth, no death lingering in his eyes. 

Jiang shuddered as he came, satisfying for all it was schoolboy shit, coming in his pants after dry-humping his half-hysterical d-partner for the hundredth, thousandth time. It kept him humble, he supposed. Down-to-earth. Proko was groaning like he’d been beaten with a baseball bat, his usual post-orgasm noises. It was obnoxious. Jiang rolled his eyes and threw himself face-down, jet-lagged and satisfied. 

Skov pouted, pink-haired and petulant, the last to  _ not come.  _ “Excuse me.” He said, in his brattiest New England bastard tone, the one that made K sometimes want to punch him in the face. “Can I get some  _ romance?”  _ Pointedly, he scrubbed at his bruised mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s still Valentine’s Day.” 

“No it’s not.” Swan disagreed, yawning so widely his jaw cracked. True enough, the bedside clock read  _ 12:18 PM.  _

“It’s still Valentine’s Day  _ somewhere.”  _ Skov insisted. “Do I have to go to Los fucking Angeles to get a fucking handjob?” 

“Yes.” Jiang said, muffled, face still mashed into the comforter, but reached a blind hand out anyway, obliging enough. 

“I’m  _ tired,” _ Proko mumbled, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other thrown wildly off to the side, his legs sprawled out and his torso diagonal. He took up impossible amounts of space. He was a fucking  _ tarp.  _ A  _ starfish.  _ He was  _ taking up all of the bed.  _

“I think that’s impossible. Ya know. Since you aren’t fucking real.” K posited, half-alive. 

“Rude.” Jiang grunted mildly, still jerking Skov off a little clumsier than he might otherwise if he wasn’t half-asleep and face-down on a ten thousand dollar mattress, and then Proko snored, because the world hated K and he couldn’t even  _ Weird Science _ up a bedmate that didn’t  _ snore.  _ What the fuck. 

“What the fuck.” K said softly to himself, shaking his head, and thought very sincerely about going off to sleep on the couch to get away from the snoring. As if hearing his thoughts, Swan slung a heavy arm around K’s waist and dragged him back far enough that he could bury his face into K’s hair, which between the sweat and sheet-tumbling had gone flat again. 

“What the fuck.” Swan agreed in a mumble, at the same time that Skov began to come, moaning in counterpoint and harmony to Proko’s snoring, sweet as a chorus of angels. Swan’s thumb rubbed slow, hypnotic circles on the skin just below K’s navel. 

Sleep came easier than he thought it would; K fell with thoughts of red-stained lips and chocolate covered strawberries, surrounded on all sides. Again, like he always did, he thought that he could get used to this. 

_ *** _

_ love me, love me _

_ say that you love me  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
